Spirits
by MewtwoOnAFlyingApe
Summary: They were black and white, day and night, and yet they were opposite halves of the same heart. Their spirits were interconnected forever, no matter what. (PruCan)


Perhaps it is the ringing of the church bells that snap him out of the reverie, perhaps it is the trembling hand on his shoulder. In all honesty, Canada couldn't find it in him to care as he turns to France, whose face was masked with a heavy frown and tear marks along his cheeks.

"I know this must be hurting you." France whispers, his voice tender. It makes Canada's heart ache as he remembers France would use that same voice when he was a child. "He was a very close friend of mine, but you loved him so much..."

Canada lets out a trembling gasp, teetering on his feet as his eyes glaze over with tears. He can't speak, his mouth moving but nothing came out. France wraps an arm around his shoulder and steers him towards where the reception would take place.

The duo pass by England, who is frowning and holding a photograph in his hand. France calls his name, and England looks up from the photo, his eyes misty. He offers a weak smile, but Canada can see with ease that it was forced. The Englishman slides the photo into his pocket and walks over.

"Canada, lad." He speaks, and Canada realizes that he too was using the voice he would use when Canada was a child. "I know this may sound like a rather idiotic question to ask, but... How are you feeling?"

A loud sob bursts from his chest as England wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into the crook of the Brit's neck, just like he would have as a child. Canada can feel England shivering with a sob. The Englishman stroked Canada's hair for a few moments before stepping back from the embrace, sending a curt nod in France's direction and walking away, wiping away at his eyes as he does so.

"Come on, Canada." France says, and Canada lets out a final whimper before trudging behind him. He can feel everyone staring at him, whispering softly amongst one another, as he moves towards the casket. He hates this. Everyone notices him now, but never before. A shaky breath moves past his lips as he finally makes it up there. Germany stands next to the casket, looking up when the Canadian let out a soft sob, his own eyes watery.

Germany stares at him for a few moments before finally asking, "Are you alright? I mean, do you really think you'll be able to stay for the - "

"I can stay." Canada rasps, a few more tears forming in his eyes. "I promised him I would be here, just like he promised that he would be here if this were to happen to me."

"But if you do die, Canada." Canada flinches slightly at the word 'die'. Germany sighs before continuing, "He won't be at your funeral."

"I know he won't." Canada speaks, his voice soft. "He won't be at my funeral in person, but he will be there in spirit, and that's really all that matters to me."

Germany exhales, and then he turns to the crowd of nations. "Everyone be silent!" He shouts, his voice echoing throughout the graveyard. The nations stop what they are doing, and Canada notices with a small smile that France is touching England's shoulder.

"You all know what we are here for today." Germany begins, his voice cracking midway. Canada covers his mouth, feeling tears gathering in his eyes. "We are here for the funeral of Gilbert Beilschmidt."

Canada turns his gaze to the casket that contained his lover, tears running down his cheeks. He can't do this. He can't -

Prussia noticed him when no one else did. He loved him when Canada felt as if no one loved him. They were black and white, day and night, and yet they were opposite halves of the same heart. He wishes that he had died before Prussia, or that Prussia was still alive.

When everyone had dispersed, and he is standing there alone under the twinkling stars and bright moon, he looks up to the sky. And then he starts to cry because he realized exactly what he has lost just at that very moment.

* * *

It is almost thirty years later when Canada loses the will to fight anymore, watching Russia stare down at him with cold eyes. It was World War Three, and he knew he was going to die. He offers a small smile to the Russian, and Russia knows that he is over, slamming his pipe onto the top of his head. He feels so much pain.

And yet, he really didn't care anymore, because when he woke up next there was a set of warm arms around him.

"Hey, Mattie, can you make pancakes now?" A familiar, scratchy voice asks him. He pulls back to stare into crimson eyes, and offers a large grin, pressing his face into Gilbert's chest.

"Of course." He responds, his voice tender with love. "Do you want maple syrup?"

"Tons of it." Prussia responds with a grin, standing up and pulling him to his feet as well. Canada beams, feeling happier than he had been thirty years ago, because he was whole again.

"Good." Canada responds. "I would have put a ton on anyways."

* * *

 **I actually have NEVER written PruCan before. This took about a hour to write, and I just feel so bad right now oops...? But anyways, I think I'll have another fic to post this evening, so yay! :D**

 **I enjoy constructive criticism, so... ^^;**

 **Thank you for reading this fanfiction!**

 ***offers box of tissues just in case***


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